


Lesser Evil

by Ygrain



Series: Ned Cousland [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The climax of Redcliffe and what followed, with some issues to be solved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A nightmare.

_Maker, let me finally wake up. Please._

His blade cuts through the bloated flesh of the thing that keeps clawing at him even as its arm is being hacked off, and despite the effect of time and decay, he knows that this used to be Alysanne, who would curse with a booming voice like a soldier but never forget to add an apple or a biscuit to the leftovers he was served for supper.

Most of the monsters they encounter bear the faces of strangers, but there are still some which he can recognize, and every such encounter plunges him deeper into a nightmare.

Everything after Ostagar seems like a nightmare, and this one is even worse than the others.

_A homecoming. Welcome, Alistair._

In those first years in the Chantry, he used to daydream of a triumphant return to Redcliffe; his night dreams were plagued with returns when no-one saw or recognized him.

Even such a welcome would be preferable to the one he is actually getting – cutting their way through the walking corpses of those who not so long ago laughed and breathed and strode the halls attending to their duties.

Another hall, another undead to be disposed of: their little group is already becoming well coordinated. He and Ned in the front, covering each other; Sten behind them to kill anything that gets past; Morrigan and Leliana… and Jowan… wreaking havoc from the distance. – Whereas Wolf, of course, wreaks havoc everywhere.

"Which way now?" Ned asks, somewhat out of breath.

Alistair has to think for a moment: the main floor is not the one he would roam very often.

Making their way through the halls and chambers, they are soon navigated by the sound of laughter: a boy's laughter, with unnatural deep undertones.

_The demon._

Alistair would very much welcome the presence of mere undead now; the fight in which he only has to rely on his reflexes, strike and evade, relentlessly. He wouldn't have to think of the bloodmage's pale face and shaking voice; wouldn't meet the deranged look in Teagan's eyes; wouldn't see Isolde's puffed face, so different from the haughty composure she always radiated; wouldn't hear the child's voice uttering atrocities…

And so he keeps his sword raising and falling, or he would have to think about it all, and he cannot bear that… until, finally, there is no target for his sword, and Teagan sits on the floor, holding his head but his eyes lucid again, and the demon lies there, unconscious, while Isolde, weeping, is cradling her son's body.

Morrigan, her hair disheveled from the fight, unceremoniously pushes the Arlessa aside as she checks the pulse on the boy's throat. "Alive," she announces. "What now? Finish him off before he wakes?"

"No!" Isolde wails. "He's but a child… Connor's not responsible for what he's done!"

"He's possessed by a powerful demon. When he wakes up, there's no telling what he might summon against us next."

"No… please… there must be another way…" Nothing, nothing about Isolde now looks like the cold Arlessa who hated every breath he took. The woman here is pitiable… and pity it is that Alistair feels, and horror.

"Is there no other way?" Ned asks Morrigan. "Can't the demon be evicted somehow?"

"You would have to enter the Fade and defeat the demon there," the witch replies impatiently. "Even if I or this poor excuse of a mage managed to perform the ritual on our own, it has to be empowered by lyrium. A lot of it. Which, correct me if I am wrong, we're rather short of."

"Lyrium is not the only option."

Everyone turns as Jowan unexpectedly steps out. Alistair shivers with disgust of the man as the realization what is being implied dawns on him. " _Blood magic_? You can't be seriously suggesting this! Maker, the Circle Tower is not so far from here, we can obtain the lyrium there!"

"A day's journey across the lake," Teagan confirms, "but…"

No-one needs to look out of the window to see that the gale has not abated, quite the contrary: sailing may not be possible for days.

"Ser Perth and his knights still have their horses. We could send a messenger…"

"I dispatched one as soon as I arrived and saw what was happening… neither the man nor any word came back. If we do now… can we hope to keep the demon contained until – and if – the help arrives?"

Alistair doesn't like the resignation he hears in Teagan's voice; doesn't like Ned's silence and expressionless face; doesn't like the way Isolde, wild-eyed, looks from one man to the other.

Finally, Ned addresses the two mages. "Can this be done? Can we be sure to keep the demon under control?"

Morrigan only shrugs; Jowan's eyes swerve. "It… should be possible. I suppose I should be able to…"

"'Should'," Ned repeats. "I'm afraid that 'should' is not enough. Tell me more about that ritual you mentioned."

Alistair feels as if choking, as the mage says: "The ritual can be empowered by blood instead of lyrium, and I do possess sufficient knowledge to perform it. It requires another mage to enter the Fade…" he shyly nods towards Morrigan, who scowls but says nothing, "but… the problem is… the life-force it requires…"

"Oh, say it, you bumbling idiot." Morrigan twists her lips in scorn. "To enable a ritual of  _this_  force, it takes all the blood there is in the veins, right?" The twist turns into a smile, no less derisive. "So? Shall we start looking for volunteers?"

"That is not necessary. Here I am."

_Isolde._

Teagan looks horrified. "Are you mad, Isolde? Eamon would never allow this!"

"Teagan. I am Connor's mother. The choice is simple for me."

Closing his eyes, Teagan lowers his head.

Ned's face sags into an indiscernible expression. "Are you sure of this?" he asks very softly. "Your son will have to live knowing that you died for him."

Isolde keeps her head high, and though very pale, she does not flinch. "But live he will.

They look into each other's eye a little longer, and then Ned nods. "Very well, then." He bows to Isolde, and unlike previously at the windmill, this time he shows deference. Then he turns to Jowan. "Let's do it now, then. Start with your preparations and say when you are ready." With these words he turns on his heel and heads for the farther end of the hall.

Alistair still cannot find his voice but his legs move on their own accord. So does his hand, which grabs Ned's shoulder.

Paradoxically, the irritated look he receives finally lets his tongue loose. "How can you be even contemplating this?  _A_   _sacrifice_? Don't tell me that you would really carry this out!"

Ned regards him with cold fury. "Should I rather be contemplating the death of a young boy for his mother's mistake? Who would deliver the blow, you?"

Alistair feels his cheeks flush with heat. "We could still at least try to contact the Circle. I could take a good horse and make it in two days."

"Alistair. Even if we try, we may still receive no help at all. The boy is technically an abomination. You know what is done with these. Besides, we really cannot afford to wait so long. Can you imagine the consequences if the demon breaks free in the meantime? We cannot risk that."

The sudden weariness in Ned's voice only fuels Alistair's resolution. "We cannot use blood magic!"

The look of fury is back again. "You don't want to use blood magic, yet you would rely on the word of a blood mage to keep the demon under control? What if he fails? What would you have me do? Isolde's is not the only life on our hands, should we sacrifice the rest of the townsfolk instead?"

"We have to come up with something else!" Alistair yells desperately.

"Like what?" Ned hisses. Then his expression changes again. "Are you dissatisfied with my leading? Take over, then, as you ought to! Take the lead, take the responsibility! Bear the consequences! Make the nasty decision yourself!"

His face burning, Alistair involuntarily lowers his head but cannot miss the ugly twist of Ned's lips. If he could somehow dig himself ten feet under the stone floor to hide from the cold stare, he would.

Ned slowly nods, as if he anticipated the outcome. "You won't. Then shut up and do as I command."

The lack of emotion in his voice is worse than a slap in the face.

Alistair stands there and raises his head only as he hears Jowan say: "We're starting. If you would please kneel here, milady – it won't hurt."

Alistair closes his eyes a moment too late.


	2. Chapter 2

The mud splashes his boots with every step, slightly yielding under the soles, which makes the descent from the mild slope rather uneasy.

_If I slide, I'll be muddy all over._

_Not that I can feel any more dirty than I already do._

Treading on, Alistair keeps his head low, under the pretext of watching his steps: looking up would mean watching the back of his fellow Warden, marching somewhat ahead.

Normally, they would go side by side or one after another, but nothing is normal, ever since Redcliffe.

They don't even talk, since Redcliffe.

They did, once: on the first night they camped outside the castle, which they left as soon as the weather allowed for travel. Alistair tried to approach Ned, to make him see why it was so essentially  _wrong_  what they did…

Somehow, they ended up yelling at each other; or rather, Alistair yelling, while Ned's voice was icier, and nastier, with every sentence.

The words have cut deep, and they have been ignoring each other since.

On the rare occasions that Alistair does look at him, he sees a complete stranger. Not the man with whom he has fought alongside, shared hardship, cracked jokes.

A stranger.

Cold, distanced, menacing.

Inhuman.

As if he opened a lid, and darkness poured out.

_How could he…?_

_And, how could_ Teagan _ever consent?_

He thought he knew Teagan, but that was a boy's memory, over ten years ago. He also thought he was getting to know Ned – to know, and like.

He never thought that Ned might turn out so  _cold_  – reserved, yes, but not as cold as stone, without any feelings…

Had he not witnessed that one moment of weakness in the Wilds, the raw pain that erupted from within, he would actually come to believe that the other Warden  _is_  actually the cold monster he seems.

_Yet, Teagan who had never been cold and unfeeling, just stood there and let it happen…_

_How could I have been so wrong?_

_Could I be wrong?_

_Damn it._

Alistair kicks the broken branch that lies on the road, and the blasted thing adds some more mud to the layer covering his boots.

" _Merde_ , look what you're doing, Alistair!"

He huffs an apology without even looking at Leliana. The ugly mood has spread all over their little group: the constant showers brought by the still prominent wind do nothing to ease it. There is little protection to be found from the elements as they make their journey along the shores of Lake Calenhad, and so they march on, cold and wet and miserable.

So miserable that he even ignores Morrigan's venomous remarks.

Apparently, Morrigan's heart is not in it, either, and so most of the time, they walk in complete silence.

Meaning, the train of his thought can go on undisturbed, though he rather wishes it didn't. Its direction is making him more and more uncomfortable.

_Right. Wrong. Right…_

They trudge up a mild slope, until they ascend a long terrain wave. The road now runs quite high above the lake: on their left, a span of turf ends with a sudden edge as the face of the rock falls steeply to the shore; on their right, bushes and low trees grow rather thick. A place like many, and the darkened sky promises yet some more rain.

The weather, the mood, each of them preoccupied with thoughts of their own… so it happens that they walk directly into an ambush.

Suddenly, a spray of arrows flies from the grove on the right. Alistair freezes as one passes an inch before his face; Wolf yelps as another hits his hind and then growls angrily. The third clunks off the breastplate that Sten acquired from the Redcliffe armoury – apparently, the cloak the Qunari was holding close to his body misled the archer into a wrong choice of the target. The other arrows miss; unsurprisingly, in this weather, bows are unreliable.

Then, a mass of men in rag-tag clothes and mismatched armours, come roaring upon them.

What follows resembles a well-trained performance.

Before the bandits can reach them, Morrigan steps up; the cold white fume which emits from her spread hands encases the front row in an icy grip. Morrigan retreats a few steps as Sten and Alistair charge the shocked bandits, each knocking down one at the moment of surprise. Leliana's throwing knife finds the throat of a third, a lightning bolt almost sizzles Alistair's hair before it hits fourth… they have danced to this tune before.

Except that one note is missing.

Ned, too far ahead, is separated from the group, and struggling on his own.

Alistair curses under his breath: he cannot leave Sten alone and expose Morrigan and Leliana; not until they manage to reduce the number of the bandits.

At least, Wolf's growling and barking comes from the right direction: Ned is not completely alone.

Alistair drops in his knees to avoid a blow aimed at his head, thrusts his sword in the man's belly, blocks a blade with his shield and as he springs up, he drives its edge in the man's face. He ducks again and turning, he kills the man who is about to attack Morrigan.

The wave of cold air leaves him momentarily short of breath and the blade of his sword is covered with hoarfrost. "Look where you're aiming!" he yells at Morrigan, who only laughs wildly in response and continues casting.

The bandits now fight like desperate men, and Alistair assesses that they are just about to break and run. However, his satisfaction disappears as he glimpses what is happening to his left.

Two corpses already sprawl on the ground and Wolf is currently producing a third one, ignoring the horrible sounds his victim is issuing. The remaining two, however, one wielding a sword and shield, the other a mace, are giving Ned a hard time; they seem more skilled than those Alistair had to deal with.

Even as he watches, Ned evades too slowly and the edge of the shield connects fleetingly with his face. Ned staggers, raising his arms reflexively – and letting a mace swing through the gap in his defence.

"Ned!" Alistair roars helplessly, as the mace strikes Ned in the chest and sends him flying to the ground.

Morrigan yells something incomprehensible and her staff hits the ground, sending a shockwave which leaves the surrounding bandits shortly dazed, but it doesn't reach Ned's opponents. The swordsman steps closer, rising his weapon high to finish the helpless Warden, and Alistair knows that there is no way he can stop the blow.

No way, unless...

The energy of the holy smite releases with a white flash. The two bandits stagger, stunned – and before they can re-compose, they have to face the approaching Templar's wrath. The mace-wielder is felled before he can raise his weapon to his defence; the swordsman manages to deflect the first blow before Alistair runs him through.

Quickly checking that his companions are able to deal with the remaining bandits, he drops his sword and shield and falls to his knees next to Ned. What can be discerned from the young man's face covered with blood is coloured ugly red, quickly turning blue as he vainly struggles for breath. The sight makes Alistair's heart jump violently. "Oh Maker, Ned… no… Ned, please, don't die… oh, Maker, please, don't let him die…"

Unable to stop his babbling, he fumbles with the buckles of Ned's breastplate and hastily cuts the laces of the gambeson and tunic. Seeing the hollow spot where the mace has broken the ribs, he moans desperately: "No… Ned…"

As if in response to his pleas, suddenly comes an inhalation; as more ragged, pained gasps follow, Ned's colour is slowly returning to normal.

Leliana kneels next to him, pale and holding her arm, pierced with an arrow. Unceremoniously, Morrigan squeezes between them and bends lower, listening to Ned's breath, until she contentedly nods. "The lungs are not punctured." She wipes the blood from his face. "The blood is from the nose, not mouth, you oafs. He will live."

Despite her claim, though, Ned's face begins to gain a ghastly pallor and he starts shivering so hard that his teeth chatter. The witch shrugs and reaches into her pouch, producing one of her potions. "What are you waiting for? Hand over some blankets, make fire, fetch water, make camp over here."

"Right here?" Leliana asks, wide-eyed.

"Where else?" the witch snorts. "This is as good a place as any. Just throw the corpses down the cliff."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Thanwen for supplying the information on the effect of chest blows caused by blunt weapons, and introducing the concept of the concussion of diaphragm. The fault for implementing it is solely mine, though /sorry, Ned/.


	3. Chapter 3

The bodies below the precipice are lying in grotesque postures.

Alistair looks over his shoulder at Ned's tent, then at the bodies one last time.

_Postponing this won't do._

Morrigan has already left to prepare what herbal concoctions she can, and so, trying to look nonchalant, he strides across the camp, pretending to ignore Leliana's warning look, and raises the flap of Ned's tent.

In the crammed space, his fellow Warden is lying on his back with his eyes closed, on a bed of as many blankets as they could spare, to make him comfortable. His ribcage, tightly dressed in bandages, rises in shallow breath but he is not asleep; his breath is uneven and there are tightening wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. As he becomes aware of Alistair's presence, the eyes open.

"Hey," Alistair says, squatting next to the bed, for the lack of a better start of conversation. "How are you… feeling?"

"… sore." Ned's voice is barely a whisper.

Silence follows, as Alistair looks for words to say what he has been rehearsing _: you were right._

Finally, it is Ned who speaks, then. "How did you… get to me in time?"

"A Templar trick. The one I used against the darkspawn emissaries, if you recall. It's called a holy smite. I never knew it would work on non-mages, but there was nothing else I could do at the moment, so I gave it a try. Frankly, I was as surprised as them – the bandits, I mean. Nothing spectacular, but it did throw them off balance, and well, the rest… I run fast."  _Oh, great. Now I'm babbling again._

"A good… venture." Ned closes his eyes for a moment: speaking is apparently exhausting him. "I guess… I owe you my life, then."

Alistair lowers his head, dropping his eyes to his hands. "First and foremost, I  _endangered_  your life by keeping off."

Ned stares at the tent canvas. "I  _wanted_  you to keep off. I knew I was too far ahead… I didn't care." He swallows hard several times. "I can't blame my own fault on you."

Alistair shakes his head. "I should have known better."  _All along_.

Ned makes an impatient gesture but immediately winces in pain and his breath hitches. "I could have commanded you…. to hold the route order… I didn't. As simple as that… not your fault."

_The leader's responsibility._

Alistair takes a deep breath.  _Now or never_. "You were right," he spurts out before his courage fails him. "You were right, and I was wrong. I mean, in Redcliffe… with Isolde. I don't – I can't – I am still feeling bad about it, but…" He forces himself to look at Ned. "If you had let me go for help as I wanted, I'd be rotting down below that cliff and you'd never find out what happened to me."

The pain in Ned's expression is almost tangible but he says nothing.

_Do it. Get it out. All of it._ "I didn't want to see the truth, neither then nor later, and nearly got you killed. No matter how you put it, it's my fault, not yours."

Ned's breath becomes ragged. "Alistair…"

He waves his hands. "I know, I know. The idiot old me. Always too dumb to see through things."

"Alistair…"

"I failed you and I know that. You strive to get us through this instead of me, and all you ever asked in return was that I be there and guard your back, and I didn't. I – I am sorry, for everything, and –"

"Alistair! Will you finally listen?" The raised voice leaves Ned gasping and perspiring. He continues with difficulty, so softly that Alistair has to lean closer. "I… may have been right… in some things… but… the reason why I had Isolde killed…"

He pauses and Alistair feels the hair on his nape rise. He does not dare to move, almost does not breathe.

"…and why I insisted that we must hurry…"

Alistair can almost physically feel how Ned is mustering his strength to voice some unpleasant truth.  _I don't want to hear this_ , he realizes with horror.  _Don't tell me there was yet something worse, it was bad enough as it was._

Contrary to his thoughts, he takes his fellow Warden by the hand. "Don't strain yourself. It really doesn't matter now. It – it's alright."

The white lie costs him nothing, but apparently is not believed.

"I thought… you hated me…"

"Maker, no!" Alistair himself is surprised how easily the denial welled from within. "I was mad at you, I doubted you, but I never…"

_I never hated you… because it would mean that I am left alone._

_And I couldn't do this alone. No, never._

"Even more so… you must know…" Ned presses his fingers hard, then lets go. "I took the quickest solution because… all that time, I feared… I feared it would come down to killing the boy…"

Horrified, Alistair listens to the tone which is not only pained but… broken.

"That night in Highever… there was my nephew, Oren. He was only six… they slit his throat, after…" He squeezes his eyes shut but to no avail: the tears that have formed escape and run down his temples, into his hair. "All along… I saw Oren's face before me… and knew I might have to kill Connor… and that I would have to deal the blow myself…" He pauses as his voice breaks, then opens his eyes again, unfocused, and lets the tears flow freely. "I couldn't. I couldn't bear that. So I let Jowan… "

Somewhere deep within, Alistair is sure that he should feel indignant that all those pragmatic reasons were untrue.

To his surprise, he doesn't.

It's as if a piece of a puzzle finally fit into its place.  _The cold look, the barely contained emotions… he was afraid. As afraid as I was. Unsure which path to take, because disaster loomed behind every turn…_

_And by the looks of him, now he apparently expects me to_ truly _hate him._

_No, it's not like that_ , he is about to say, painfully aware that no words he can hastily arrange will possibly sound convincing. He will never forget the way Isolde's body arched when her life-force was being drained… nor that small smile with which she had knelt down: ' _Connor will live'._

_I hated her. How many times did I wish her dead when I was a kid?_

_And how many times did I wish her to love me?_

Instead, he pulls up the blanket and tucks it around Ned because he is beginning to shiver again, the tears still flowing. Alistair remains seated by, remarkably less uncomfortable with the situation than he would have thought possible. "I hated Isolde with a passion," he says after a while. "That's what makes me feel so bad about it, I guess. Yet, when she offered to sacrifice herself… I couldn't help but admire her for that."

"Mothers tend to do such things," Ned mutters, still looking at no-one and nothing. "Mine stayed behind to buy me time…"

_Oh, Maker. All that time that I was prating to no end about Duncan, he was bearing this inside…_

_Really, Alistair, try biting off your tongue for once._

He sits a while in silence. He  _still_  feels guilt and horror over Isolde's death. He  _still_  feels soiled by the use of blood magic. The idea of facing Eamon after all those events  _still_ makes him cringe… only he realizes that he is not angry any more.

Or rather, that he is not angry with Ned.

_What good can be expected when the only choice is between the bad and worse?_

_Lesser evil._

_That_  is what he hates.

"I am sorry," he says at last. "For your family… and that I let you go through this all alone. Maybe… you could tell me what happened there? – Not now; later, when you feel better. There is nothing I can do about it, but I can listen, the way you did for me… if you want."

It takes some time before Ned answers. "I do. Later." He shifts a little, as if about to take out his hand from under the blanket to wipe his face, and the movement makes him wince.

"Don't move." Alistair takes a cloth Morrigan has left there with spare bandages and wipes Ned's face, avoiding the big bruise on the cheek. The activity feels rather awkward: though his Templar training did include treating the wounded, most of the time he was afraid that he would do something wrong.

Most of the time, he did, earning the overseeing healer's disapproving glance.

"Would you like some water?" he recalls the inevitable part of treatment. "I'll fetch it."

"Morrigan said… she would bring some drink to help me fall asleep… but before she does… yes, please."

"Sure." As he is about to rise, Alistair hesitates.  _I did learn a thing or two at the Chantry, didn't I?_

_Time to share it all, maybe?_

"Concerning that Templar trick… it might be good if you knew it too, in case we were overpowered again. So, given that we have agreed to trade secrets… I have something to offer, as well."

"You would… break your vows?"

_Rather that than see you dead. Lesser evil of sorts, as well._

"Yes, I would. I never got round to actually swearing them, did I?"

He receives a faint smile and smiles back, and then Morrigan arrives with a freshly brewed concoction and sends him off to fetch the water and what not.

As he leaves the tent, he takes a deep breath of the fresh air, still humid after the last shower. Nodding to Leliana's raised brows, he looks south, towards Redcliffe, then north, to their destination.

Somewhere in between these points, he has become a somewhat different man.

For the god or for the bad, Maker knows.


End file.
